A Story of Their Own
by Consulting Fangirl
Summary: Kid!lock - Young Sherlock comes home one day to discover that his family will once again be moving, and to the countryside. After days of trying to entertain himself with adventures throughout the house, Sherlock decides to wander the surrounding area, and is surprised when he meets another boy of about the same age.
1. Captain Sherlock of the Seven Seas

**A/N: This is story idea I've had for a while now, and over the last couple weeks I've been getting this first part put together. It's actually loosely based on the story _The Boy In Striped Pajamas _(which you should read if you have not). Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Sherlock had run home from school that day. His father was due to be back in town, and the young boy was excited to see the man after weeks of his absence. He made his way quickly down the sidewalk, backpack bouncing on his back, and his little feet slapping on the pavement. He did detour slightly though, only to climb the brick wall and walk along it, arms outstretched for balance. Reaching the end Sherlock jumped off, continuing on again.

He gave a grin and looked behind him. Oh no! The fierce warriors of the Sherwood tribe were after him! He, Captain Sherlock of the Black Elm, Crusader of the Seven Seas, needed to get away with the stolen treasure. He must return it to his pirate ship and awaiting crew without getting caught. The little boy ran down the street, picking up a short stick from the side of the road to use as a sword. He slashed it in front of him, pretending to cut down the branches of the thick forest he was supposedly running through. He turned in a circle slashing at an invisible tribesman behind him, then continued running, a wide grin on his face. Moments later he dropped the stick and slowed down his run just a bit in order to go up the steps to his front door. He pushed it open and entered, his mind now forgetting about his recent pirate adventure for the moment, instead focusing on the original task of coming home to his father.

* * *

The eight-year-old ignored the maid's protests as he ran farther into the house, sneakers sill on his feet and trailing mud and dirt on the freshly cleaned carpet. He didn't even set his books down on the wooden bench as he normally would, Sherlock rushing through the entrance hall to reach the sitting room. He ran through the doors grinning, only to be disappointed and came to a stop before entering on to the rug. The only occupants of the large room with the three chairs and bookshelves a plenty, was his mother, older brother Mycroft (who was going on seventeen), and Mrs. Reynolds of the big white house from down the road. The three looked up from their afternoon tea to see what the interruption had been. Sherlock's small mouth made the shape of an "o" as his grin faded, and he prepared to turn around and head out again. His mother stopped him.

"Aren't you going to wish Mrs. Reynolds a good afternoon?" his mother asked softly, Mrs. Reynolds giving a polite smile in addition.

"Afternoon," Sherlock said in barely a whisper.

"Mrs. Reynolds," his mother added with a nod of the head for him to do as well.

"Mrs. Reynolds," he whispered again, a hand in the doorframe, ready for him to turn around.

"Good afternoon, Sherlock, dear," Mrs. Reynolds replied with a smile, taking a sip of her tea. Mycroft spoke up from across Sherlock, setting his cup gently on the side table.

"Now where were you, Mrs. Reynolds," he asked with all respect noticeable. "before we were so suddenly interrupted?" at that the older boy gave Sherlock a glare, his idea clearly that Sherlock should be taught more manners, or at least disciplined for them. Sherlock stuck his tongue out at Mycroft, and was immediately scolded by his mother.

"Sherlock Holmes! Don't make faces a your brother, especially not in front of company," she warned harshly. "And take your shoes off, you're tracking dirt everywhere." She added, turning back to the conversation.

"Pardon my dear brother, Mrs. Reynolds," Mycroft gave an apologetic smile. "he has yet to grow out of his childish habits." he gave another glare to the younger boy who glared back before turning to leave.

"Not at all, not at all, Mycroft." Mrs. Reynolds returned. "Now where was I? Ah, yes- " Sherlock left to the sound of their neighbor droning on about some story of her experience at the shop the week prior.

The boy sighed and returned to the front door, removing his shoes and jacket. Mary, their maid, bent down to retrieve the small coat, hanging it up on the hook where all the others hung. Sherlock couldn't reach it even if he stood on tiptoe. The boy started up the steps, sitting on the first few and watching Mary.

"When's Father coming home?" he asked, peering around the end of the banister to watch Mary as she moved.

"Later this evenin', Master Sherlock," Mary replied, moving his shoes to go with the others.

"He is coming, right?" Sherlock stood up now, standing on tiptoe and leaning on he banister railing. "He promised. Mother promised." he explained, watching Mary carefully.

"Yes, yes he is," Mary gave Sherlock a quick glance as though she held a secret he mustn't know. Sherlock stored this in the back of his mind for later.

"Now go run upstairs and change out of your school clothes," she added, "before you ruin them by running about."

Sherlock gave a grin to Mary and she returned it with a smile. He left his perch and slowly trudged up the steps to the third floor where his bedroom was.

He had always liked Mary. She had worked for the Holmes family for many years now, and had taken care of Sherlock when he had been a baby. She was always kind to him.

* * *

Even walking as slowly as he was, Sherlock eventually made it to the top of the ninety-seven steps. He felt proud for counting all of them the week before. And he knew how many here were until each landing as well, not just the total.

The boy wandered down the hall coming to his room. He pushed open the door, leading into the large space that was his bedroom, complete with the large window that he could see out of if he climbed up to the window seat. There was even a tree outside of it, and sometimes if he was patient, the eight-year-old could watch the bees fly in and out of the hive that hung on a branch, not too far away. Sherlock walked past it now, but didn't stop to linger, instead wandering to his closet.

The boy pulled his school jumper off over his head of curls, and after, began unbuttoning the numerous clear buttons of the white, long-sleeve dress shirt. When he had that undone and off, he began on his belt, and the trousers, adding them to the pile his uniform had made at his feet. Sherlock now went over to the closet, pulling out a pair of dark shorts, then a white buttoned tshirt. He put those on, now satisfied with the more comfortable clothing and the slapping of his bare feet on the floor.

He gave a smile and jumped onto the bed, crawling over the nicely made sheets, and tossing them up again before sliding off the other side. He chose a book from his ever growing collection that had long since left the overflowing bookshelves, and now found itself collecting in piles on the floor. Sherlock picked up his most recent favorite _The Adventures of Tom Sawyer_, with it's cover that was worn and faded from use.

The boy gave yet another smile to himself, rushing over to the big armchair where father or mother, and occasionally Mycroft, used to read to him as a younger boy. Sometimes father still did if Sherlock asked nicely. But rarely would it happen since the man was always away for work. Mother was too busy nowadays, and Mycroft considered Sherlock too old for that. Which was fine to the younger boy. He could read anything himself, and often did, from adventure stories to encyclopedias, to classic Shakespeare plays. Sherlock Holmes read it all, even though he was only eight. Mother had always told him he was smart for his age, just like Father and his older brother.

Sherlock would smile when he remembered all the countless times his mum would take him aside, kneeling in front of him. She would ruffle his dark curls, and place a hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock Holmes," she would whisper in her always soft, gentle voice. "you're a special little boy. Dont you ever forget that."

She would then place a light kiss on his small forehead, right above his mix of blue and green eyes. Whenever he came running home from school, having been teased by the bigger kids for always reading, or being so small, his mum would tell him this, and Sherlock would feel better.

He really was extremely small for his age, and mum always said it was because he hadnt reached his growth spurt yet. But at this rate, Sherlock didn't believe it would ever happen, and he would always be small and short, forever.

Sherlock went back to his reading, diving in to the story of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn, running about town and hunting for treasure. He left the window with the tree outside of it, and the bees fluttering in and out of their hive. The bed with the now messy sheets, and his always growing book collection, left back in his bedroom, back in his large house. Right now the eight-year-old was elsewhere. In St. Petersburg, Missouri to be exact, with his friends Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, and Joe Harper.

* * *

It was when Tom had skipped school lessons with Joe and both were sword fighting and playing Robin Hood in the forest, that Sherlock decided he should be having an adventure of his own instead of simply reading about one. He grinned to himself and stood up setting the book down, rather roughly on the floor by the chair, still open with the spine up in order to save his spot. Sherlock ran over to his closet, picking up a newspaper hat from the floor, and a nice wooden sword Mycroft had gotten him. He placed the hat on his head and gave the sword a good swish in the air before turning to the layout in front of him.

_Captain Sherlock stood on the shore of a beach, his dark curls blowing in the wind underneath his hat. He had a firm grip on his sword as he studied the sea in front of him. The waves felt good as they washed up onto his bare feet, at the same time his toes sinking into the wet sand below him. Captain Sherlock was shaken from his trance as he heard shouting from his crew to the left. Oh no! The waves had dislodged his boat and it was beginning to sail away. Quickly with no hesitation the pirate ran forwards and jumped towards the water, landing carefully on a dry rock before reaching up and clinging on to a trailing rope. He used it to pull himself up to the boat deck, climbing over the edge and standing up confidently. He had made it. The captain walked along the long deck of his ship and made his way over to the ships giant wheel, standing on the bow in front of it and going back to his observation of the sea as the crew maintained the ship. What a beauty she was under such a fine crew, his pirate ship, the Black Elm._

Sherlock stood up on his bed, grinning and grabbing one of his numerous stuffed animals from by the pillows. He placed it right on the end of the bed to steer the wheel, then stood by it, hand on the sword hilt that was now slung through his belt loop. Bringing a hand to his forehead as though blocking the sun, Sherlock gazed out over his bedroom floor.

_ The ship was sailing brilliantly over to the beautiful ocean. No clouds in sight up above, and the water flat and peaceful. Captain Sherlock had told his men to go below and rest. No help was needed on the deck at the moment. But wait, what was that? Rising out of the water ever so slowly. But then it was huge and looming over the Black Elm's deck. A submarine! A big one too, rising out of the water. Before he knew what was happening, Captain Sherlock was leaping back from ropes that had come flying towards his ship, attaching themselves to the edge, and now a horde of Ninja Pirates were sliding down them and boarding his ship. The captain began to panic. His crew was all below deck and here he was alone and about to face of hundreds of dreaded Ninja Pirates in their fancy black clothing and face masks. Wait, what was he talking about? He was the brave Captain Sherlock, Crusader of the Seven Seas, and nothing could stand in his way or stop him. He gave out a battle cry, sword drawn and already slicing toward the enemy._

Sherlock jumped around the bed, the mattress springing up with each jump and creaking under him. The eight-year-old ran back and forth from end to end, stepping on pillows and leaping over the bulges the rumpled covers now made. He spun in circles and swung his sword around, yelling to the imaginary enemies as he fought them.

_ "Take that you menacing beast!" With one final strike, Captain Sherlock defeated the last of the evil Ninja Pirates. He placed his sword back into it's scabbard, wiping a hand across his brow where sea spray and sweat was now dripping down his face. His hand brushed his long curly hair, then quickly flung to the top of his head. Oh no! His pirate hat, black with a skull and cross bones on it, had flown off in the fury of the battle. The pirate rushed over to the bow of the ship, leaning over the edge. There! There it was, already sodden and started to float away. Captain Sherlock reached his arm out as far as he could, his fingers just barely brushing against the pointed tip of the hat. He stretched his arm as far as he could, but it was no use. The hat was floating away and his arm wasn't long enough._

Sherlock was leaning over the bed frame, sword in hand and holding onto the railing, the other reaching out towards the ground for his hat, where it lay on the carpet. He stood up straight when he heard the door open downstairs, and the laughing and greeting of the new person, his hat forgotten as he gave a wide smile.

The eight-year-old leapt off the bed, letting the sword drop to on the mattress and running over to the window, jumping up to the window seat, and kneeling on it with his hands and face pressed against the glass. He grinned at the sight of his fathers blue car in the drive, and he pushed himself off to rush downstairs, running across the carpet on the wood, and pounding down the stairs, hardly caring if he was making quite the racket.

The window looking out front was left with it's Sherlock sized prints on it's glass, the evening sun shining through it and across the bedroom floor. Over the pile of his school uniform, and the bed with the sword on it and the hat on the floor. Over the arm of the big chair then the spine of _Tom Sawyer _before it spilt through the crack of the halfway opened door, left so as Sherlock had rushed out to greet his father.

Clambering down the stairs, his hand trailing along the banister, Sherlock jumped off at the two bottom steps, coming to a halt on the wooded floor. His father saw him and let his jacket drop to the hook he had been placing it on, bending down to receive the hug Sherlock was now running towards him to give.

"Hey there, bud!" he said, ruffling a large hand through Sherlocks curls. The man kept his hand flat on the boy's head, and stretched his arm out, as though measuring Sherlock's height. "My goodness! You've grown in the last few months." he grinned and stood up. "You might as well be the height of a tree soon," he laughed, ruffling the dark hair once more. Mycroft stepped forwards, holding out his hand and shaking the older man's.

"Father," he greeted. Mr. Holmes shook Mycroft's back and placed a hand on his son's shoulder also in greeting. He finally went over over at his wife and grinned, pulling her in for a hug as well and giving her a light kiss on the cheek.

"It's good to be back, a whole family again."

Mary came in from the kitchen to tell the family their supper was waiting on the table.

"Perfect timing, eh?" he said, grabbing both of his boys by the shoulders and pulling them in next to him. "Shall we eat then? I've got a little announcement for you two." Sherlock nodded against his fathers waist and looked up as his father let the two boys go, leading the family into the dining room to eat. Mr. Holmes gave a smile to his wife, who smiled back.

* * *

"_Moving!?_" Sherlock nearly shouted, his jaw hanging open and his spoon dropping and clattering against the nice china of his soup bowl.

"Sherlock, pick your spoon up and don't leave your mouth open like that," his mother pointed out in response.

"Yes, moving. It'll be fun," his father cheered with a smile next to him. Mycroft across the table from Sherlock looked between his mother and sibling, then back at his father.

"Where exactly are we moving?" the older boy asked, taking a spoonful of soup as he watched his father for a reply.

"To the country side a bit. A nice place." Mycroft nodded with approval before their father continued. "Theres even a forest nearby for you to run in," he added, looking at Sherlock who no longer had the appetite to eat.

"But what about school? And _this_ house, and my bedroom and the bees outside the window, and the books and the park down the road, and- "

"Sherlock," his mother hushed him from his left. "Let your father speak."

His dad gave a short chuckle at the boy's outburst before realizing just how serious the eight-year-old was.

"It'll all be fine. The books we'll take with us and you'll get your own new bedroom. As for the park, you'll have a helluva backyard stretching miles over, and I'm sure you'll find some bees there." he gave a smile and reached over to ruffle Sherlock's hair.

"And school?" Mycroft asked. It was a question he had as well. "Will we be busing?"

Sherlock looked between his father and brother. His mother nodded to their father to continue. After eating a bit of soup, and clearing his throat, the man spoke.

"No, no. I've already arranged for a private tutor who'll come mornings, Monday through Friday to give you two each lessons."

Sherlock gave a groan, and received a kick from his brother under the table to shut up. He then proceeded by leaning his cheek in his hand, and stirring his soup around in his bowl with the spoon.

"That, um, that sounds great." Mycroft answered for the both of them, putting on a fake smile, not really looking forward to it.

"Great!" their father replied with a grin, and their mother gave a weak smile, well aware of the boys' absent enthusiasm. "We'll be leaving in three days, so you boys'll spend the weekend packing up all your things together.

"Monday!?" Sherlock burst out again, all though not as suddenly as the first time. "That's so soon..." he trailed off, not having expected any of this when he so eagerly ran down the stairs earlier to greet his father.

"Yes, Monday." his father confirmed.

Those two words seemed to be the end of the discussion, the family of four silently going back to their meal. The only sounds were their metal spoons clacking against the china bowls as the scraped out the last bits of soup. All excitement from his rushing down the stairs or his earlier adventures was forgotten, as Sherlock silently mixed his food around in it's bowl. A few minutes later, the youngest broke the silence once more.

"Is this forever?" he asked quietly, looking up toward their father, then mother, then back to father. "That's what you said last time..." The family was quiet, three of them all staring at the boys' father, none knowing the answer and eagerly waiting for his reply.

Their dad looked at Sherlock a little unsure.

"Hopefully not. A year at the very most. Then we can come back here again." He gave a smile, hoping that would satisfy his awaiting family members.

And that was the end to the conversation.

* * *

**A/N: How did you like it so far? I would love to here your comments and reviews. The title I randomly came up with just for this first part until I decide otherwise. But if you have an idea of a title I should put, I would love to hear about it! This is actually my first ever chaptered fanfiction, so bear with me as I write it. The second chapter will hopefully be up in not too long, but I'll be starting up school again in a few days, so it might not go as planned. But look out for updates! Or you will miss parts, and the next chapter ;) **


	2. Counting the Seconds

**A/N: So sorry you guys for the long wait. I just started up school again a week and a half ago, so my days have consisted of homework and getting back into the school schedule. And then as I was writing this I accidently deleted a full few paragraphs which set me back a bit. But its here now! Yay! Thanks to all of you who favourited and followed this story. I was not expecting it. This is kind of an experiment for me cause this is my first chaptered fanfiction for me to upload and also have to update, so hopefully I will be able to do so to keep you guys reading! But, now, without further ado, chapter two. :) Enjoy! (And let me know what you think).**

* * *

The next few days consisted of packing, just as their father had requested. Sherlock found himself sitting on his bed, watching as Mary helped pack together all his belongings. Everything went into boxes, minus a few items that would remain with them while everything else went ahead in a big truck. The few remaining items went into small suitcases they were to bring in their own car.

Sherlock had four boxes for his books, two for his clothes, one for all his stuffed animals, a eighth for his notebooks, drawings and art supplies, and finally the last box, resulting in nine total, held his most prized possessions. Mary had allowed him to pack this one on his own, as it contained all the things held most dear to the eight-year-old.  
The very first item was his pirate costume: his hat and sword. It took a long argument between him and his mother that he would not bring it in the car, then many protests from Sherlock and a half-convincing debate that still resulted in a 'no'. In the end, it went into the box first.

Piled ontop of that was Sherlock's small marble collection, passed on to him from his older brother. In total there were forty-seven of them, all ranging in different colours, sizes and specimens. He never actually used them to play marbles, seeing as he had no one to play with, but also he rather enjoyed using them for other things. For example, with the next item placed in his box: the homemade slingshot his father had helped him make after Mycroft had explained to him basic physics from the older boy's school textbook. Sherlock would run around in the yard, pockets full of marbles, and slingshot in hand, shooting at a target he had chosen in a tree.

Along with the hat, sword, marbles, and slingshot, Sherlock had his favourite of them all.

The very last of Sherlock's prized possessions, was a blue rubber ball he had found on his way home from school one day. He had been walking along the brick wall, just like every afternoon, occasionally slashing at plants and fake enemies. When he had wandered off the path a bit, trailing through dirt and in between a few trees, he saw something in the mud that caught his eye. It was after bending down to pick it up and wiping it off on his uniform trousers (much to his mum's displeasure), that the young boy had discovered it was a ball. That day he spent the rest of the walk bouncing it along the cement path in front of him, chasing after it when it would come down wrong on a crack, and corralling it carefully with each motion so it wouldn't go bouncing into the street.

* * *

It was on Sunday night that Sherlock was still awake in his bed, which would be taken apart and added to the many other things to be loaded into the moving truck. He was leaning against the metal frame, covers pulled up to his stomach. The young boy looked around his dark, empty room. To the left were his shelves, stripped clean of every book, hardbound or paperback. And then the empty space against the wall where the big chair had sat, and in front of it, the boring white floor where a rug had been. On the right was Sherlock's empty closet, looking more mysterious than it had been when previously filled with his hanging clothes. And then a few feet in front of the end of the bed, and against the right wall, remained the big window, with the tree outside of it and the bee hive.

The rest of the room, the space in directly in front of the bed, was completely empty. It used to contain Sherlock's desk and chair, covered in books or papers, his stuffed animals off to the side, and his special box in the drawers that had contained his marbles, slingshot and rubber ball. But now all of it was empty, and Sherlock didn't like it. Not one bit. This was the last night he would ever spend in the bedroom with the window to look out front and the window seat below it.

Sherlock finally gave up on sleeping, shoving the covers off his legs with his hands. He slid his feet off the side of the bed, pushing off with his hands behind him, letting them slowly thump to the hardwood beneath.

On a normal night, Sherlock would have settled in the big chair, choosing one of his many books to read before he was able to fall asleep. But this wasn't a normal night, and both those things were packed away and downstairs. He walked around the end of the bed, going to the other side of the room.

He climbed up to the window seat, kneeling on the cushion, and setting his hands against the glass once again. It was a full moon, and the glossy light shone through the thin branches of the tree, illuminating his face. He looked out of the view that he doubted he would ever see again.

The long paved driveway, stretching out into the street. And at the closer end of it, his father's blue car, parked next to the front steps of the house. And to the left was the tree. Sherlock could just make out the silhouette of the bee hive thanks to the moonlight, but at this time there weren't any of the insects zooming in and out to continue their production of honey. Below the tree was their grassy front yard, a big area with many more trees and a few plants in a garden bed. Sherlock could picture the tree in his head he had often used for target practice with his slingshot, or the stump he would stand on with his pirate hat and sword, claiming his land.

The eight-year-old heaved a sigh. He couldn't believe this was happening, and probably would never except the fact that it was. They were moving, in the morning, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Sherlock spent the rest of the night in the window seat. He eventually changed positions so his back was braced against on of the walls, and from there, he had at some point, fallen asleep.

* * *

Sherlock woke up in the morning to the very first lights of dawn streaming across him and the floor of his nearly empty bedroom. He slowly opened his eyes, giving a yawn and a stretch of his arms before sliding off the windowseat cushion, and walking slowly across the room to the door. He placed a hand on the doorknob, pulling it open slowly.

No doubt his mother would still be asleep, it was still quite early. She would be getting up in the next hour or so however. And Mycroft on the other hand probably sleeping as well, if not up and having been so reading or researching some thing or another since before the sun came up over the horizon.

But Sherlock's father would surely already be downstairs, in the sitting room with a paper and his morning tea.  
Sherlock decided this was where he would go. The eight-year-old peered his head out the doorway and into the hall, looking first to one of the hall, the side with his parents' bedroom, and then the other, staring at the staircase that led downstairs. He slipped into the hall and slowly crept along the hall, carefull not to step on the spot he knew would creak, and keeping close to the wall where the floor was less likely to make noise.

At the top of the staircase, Sherlock begin his way down, a hand above his head held onto the wood banister and sliding down it slowly as Sherlock took each step down.

The house was deathly silent, except for the clink of a few plates and dishes from the kitchen, where no doubt breakfast was being prepared.

Sherlock reached the bottom step, his hand resting on the spherical piece decorating the end of the banister. He peered around the wood, looking over to the kitchen door that was slightly ajar. From inside the kitchen Mary turned around and saw him, giving the boy a small smile before turning back around and continuing her work at the counters.

Sherlock gave her a small smile back even though she had already turned around. He turned on the stairs, facing the front entrance hall and the stairs. Off to one side a corner was occupied by boxes and a few pieces of furniture covered in protective plastic for the truck ride. Sherlock could pick out each box and tell what was inside, even if they weren't labeled. From a slight corner of fabric sticking out of the third box from the left, Sherlock knew that it contained his mother's blouses. And another one, perfectly square and sagging on top of the box below. That held Mycroft's book collection.

The eight-year-old hopped down from the last step, walking slowly towards the sitting room he had so eagerly run into the afternoon a few days prior. That day seemed so long ago. And the excitement he had held at the time. The adrenaline rushing through his body from his recent pirate adventure.

But not anymore. Not right now. With all the time spent packing, and his things themselves being packed, Sherlock hadn't gotten another chance to run around as Captain Sherlock, Pirate of the Seven Seas.

Sherlock gave a small sigh and continued quietly towards the big double-doors. He reached them, and pushed one open with his hands.

Directly across from him, sat his father, his view covered by the unfolded newspaper he was reading. Sherlock stood in the doorway for a moment, saddened by the empty feeling of the room he had so often visited for a new book or for tea his mother forced him to attend. But now the many bookshelves lacked their books, very much like Sherlock's own upstairs. The three armchairs that also occupied the room still remained, to be loaded into the truck later with everything else.

"Good morning, Sherlock," the man greeted, lowering his paper slowly.

"Hello, Father," Sherlock exchanged, looking over at the man in the chair.

"You all ready, then?" His father asked with a smile, hoping for some enthusiasm towards the move from his son.

"yeah, I guess," the eight-year-old returned, his voice hesitant and regretful towards their soon to be journey.

"Oh, come on. It won't be that bad," His father tried to encourage. Sherlock simply ignored the man, going over to one of the other of three chairs, and climbing into it. He sunk into the cushion, the size of the chair enveloping him compared to his own small body.

Mr. Holmes went back to reading his newspaper, the open pages once again covering his upper body.

Sherlock sat back in his own chair silently, watching the older man. He shifted position so his legs were pulled up to his chest and no longer dangling over the edge. He heaved a small sigh. He had no book to read, the one main use for a chair such as the one now surrounding him.

The eight-year-old let his eyes wander around the room, then he let his feet dangle of the chair seat again. His hand rested on the chair arm, and his fingers subconsciously tapped out a pattern on the fabric, the only other sound being the occasional shuffle of papers as his father turned the pages.

* * *

Three hours later, the truck was loaded, their four suitcases had been lined up by the front door, and the entire house echoed under each footstep out of its emptiness.

After having sat silently in the sitting room chair for nearly an hour (Sherlock had attempted to count the seconds), both his mother and older brother had individually come downstairs, entering into the sitting room as well. The family had then breakfasted together, their last meal in this house, on a feast of toast, eggs, and ham, as well as warm tea. During the meal no one spoke or attempted to make conversation, all four of them in some way regretting their plans on leaving.

When they were done the last minute changes were made, loading the final items onto the truck and the fews small things into their car, save for their suitcases.

Sherlock had wandered upstairs again, starting from the top floor and making his way down, visiting each and every room with its completely cleared floors and blank walls. Eventually when he knew that even the suitcases were packed, he headed for the stairs to go back down. There was no way to stall or any excuse to get himself out of this now. One step, slowly at a time, the eight-year-old slumped down the stairs, each step making a soft thump on the wood, and echoing through the house. When he was about halfway down, his mother motioned for him to stop and to hurry down quickly and join both his father and brother who also stood in the entrance hall.

Sherlock stepped forwards to his fathers side, where he was then pulled into a loose side-hug.

"You boys ready?" Mr. Holmes asked, looking between Mycroft and his wife, and Sherlock looking up at him from his side.

Mycroft gave a small last glance to the large staircase. Then with a nod to his father, the eldest Holmes boy turned and left out the door. Mr. Holmes took a breath to ready himself, and then he had to give his other son a nod as well, also giving Sherlock a small push to join his brother in leaving.

When both boys had left the doors for the last time, Mrs. Holmes turned to look back behind her as well.

"Are we doing the right thing?" She asked softly to her husband.

"I never really know," was his reply before she left the house as well, and he followed, stopping once through doorway, to turn, take one last look into the house, then close and lock the door behind him. Mr. Holmes left the front steps and joined his family in their car.

The family piled in, took their last looks at the house, then drove off, the big moving truck in front of them as they followed behind. Sherlock turned around in his seat watching the big house slowly shrink behind him. Only did he sit back normally when his mum tapped his shoulder and motioned for him to turn around again.

The journey was ridden in silence, and Sherlock spent it staring out the window, watching the many land features fly by.

* * *

Hours later, when it was well into the afternoon, Sherlock felt himself being nudged awake.

"Sherlock, dear, wake up. Look," Sherlock felt his mother tapping his shoulder. He lifted his head from where it had been rested on her lap, his cheek a little red with a small mark from her skirt. He looked up drearily, his tired eyes finding the window to look out of.

They were in the countryside now. Ginormous fields and trees that went on forever. And the gravel road they were driving on now. Looking behind him again, Sherlock could just barely see through the cloud of dust they were trailing behind him.

The eight-year-old stayed awake for the next half hour as they drove along the road that never ended. Or seemingly never did.

Sherlock was beginning to wonder if they were the only people living out here, there were no other signs of civilization other than the road.

But within a few minutes they drove past a small farmhouse, sitting on it's own in a patch of trees with a wheat field next to it. But Sherlock didn't get a good enough look at it.

He turned to face his father who was driving.

"Who lives in that house?" he asked and his father looked at him through the rearview mirror with furrowed eyebrows.

"What house, son?"

"The one we just drove past. Does anyone live there? Are there children?" Sherlock asked with his child curiosity.

His father shook his head.

"No, I don't think so. I don't think anyone lives there."

Sherlock looked back out the window, wondering if he see another similar house, but he didn't. The farmhouse he had seen looked well kept, save for it's few falling shingles and old roof. But surely someone had to live it in, or it would be rotten and falling to the ground. And the eight-year-old knew his father was aware of that. So why was he being lied to?

Sherlock brushed it off for now. Maybe he would go exploring later.

* * *

**A/N: Well that's the end of chapter 2. I know they didn't do much, but I felt like it was dragging on. Don't worry, next chapter will be full of adventure and the new house ;) Let me know what you think so far! I love hearing from you guys. And also, as I said before, those of you in the UK let me know if I am saying something wrong or if there's a different word for something from that which I use. Thanks to you all! I'll try and get chapter 3 up sooner than I did this one :)**


	3. Not the Same

**A/N: Im so sorry guys, its been quite a while since chapter two. In a mix of classes, a ton of assignments and tests, and a lot of stuff going on at home, I finally got a chance to write up chapter three this week, and the last day or so has been editing. So its here now, and I have the start of chapter 4 written up as well, so I will get that to you as soon as I can. Thanks for all the follows, likes and comments. It means a lot :) **

* * *

"What do you think?" Sherlock's father asked, hand on his youngest sons shoulder. The family of four was standing beside their car, facing their new home. It was a large house. Two floors with lots of windows from what Sherlock could see. A small driveway led up to the door where one step led inside. And the yard, or rather the land around it, was expansive, stretching on as far as the eye could see. Behind the house was a small shed-like building with a garden between that and the main house. And behind that, a forest that went on for miles on all sides.

"Its different," Sherlock mumbled softly in dissapointment.

"You didnt expect us to move into a replica of our old house, did you?" Mycroft teased, heading up to the door to look on the inside.

"Of course its different," Sherlock's mother responded warmly, ignoring his brothers remarks. "But you'll get accustumed to it quickly. Shall we take a look?" She asked, stepping forwards for Sherlock to follow. His father nodded to him to do so, and followed behind wife and son as the three entered the house as well.

Sherlock stepped into the house, his eyes wandering around the large empty area. The floor was bare, and echoed as Mycroft came quickly down the stairs after having gone up to check it out. Sherlock left the side of his mother to have a look for himself.

The entry hall was different from their old house, leading to the right into a small office space. To the left was the kitchen, like before, and off of that a dining room and study. The stairs instead of being directly head on from the door, were off to the side as well, next to the door of the office.

Sherlock decided to explore the upstairs first, and possibly claim a room, had Mycroft not done so already.

The eight-year-old trudged up the wooden steps, hand trailing along the banister. He counted each rise, and when he got to the top, the second floor, Sherlock discovered this house only had thirty-three steps. A third of the last. Also, only two floors instead of three.

The upstairs was weird to the boy. It was short, with two doors on one side and three on the other. At the end, just a plain old wall. The first two doors on the left were bedrooms, and on the right, a room, bathroom, and fourth bedroom. The doors were each open slightly, and Sherlock decided to look into the first on the left to start. He entered slowly, letting the door creak open and tap against the wall when it had done so.

This room was empty, boring, and the only interesting thing was a window high up on the wall. So high that Sherlock couldnt see out of it, even if he had something to stand on. He knew this one would definately not be his own. There was nothing about it to like.

Sherlock exited and came to the next room, the one across the hall. It was similar to the first, only this one had a shelf built into the wall on one side. after a quick glance, Sherlock left again, going past the second door, the small bathroom, and coming to the third room upstairs.

The third bedroom didnt even have a window. There was no shelf, and the peeling wallpaper of the four sides made Sherlock scowl, only having entered as far as the doorway before seeing enough of it. That only left the second door on the left, and if that didnt work, Sherlock would have to choose between these others. He pushed the last door open slowly, not wanting to rush it, or get his hopes up for a magnificent bedroom that might not even exist. When the door was finally open, and Sherlock was standing umoving in its doorway, his small lips formed into a smile. This room, this was it. To the right was a window, a little tall, but if Sherlock had a chair he could easily see out of it. And directly across the door, a second window, this one giving an excellent view of the forest out back, the tall neverending trees, and above them, the blue sky that loomed overhead.

Stepping farther into the room, the eight-year-old let his eyes wander to the white painted walls, the small corner off to the side that would serve as a perfect spot for his books. And across from it, the wall where his bed would go, leaving just enough room for his desk to sit facing the window. Yes, this room was perfect, and Sherlock claimed it silently as his own.

* * *

Sherlock headed back downstairs again, taking his time. He took each step down individually to make the process slow. His shoes clicked on the wood with each step, moving across the walls of the empty, but soon to be filled house. When reaching the bottom, Sherlock discovered his brother exploring the kitchen and dining room area, and his parents looking through the office. The eight-year-old looked to both the right and left before hopping off the last step and letting his shoes echo across the floor. He paused then continued on his way into the office where his parents were.

Sherlocks father turned to face the door where the eight-year-old had now entered.

"Any thoughts? How do you like it?" the man asked proudly.

Sherlock managed a shrug from his position in the doorway.

"Have you picked out a room?" his mother asked, noticing his absent enthusiasm.

Sherlock gave a simple nod, silently, at the same time allowing his eyes to wander around the office.

"Excellent." his father exclaimed. "Why don't you get your things from the car and place them up there, eh? Before someone else takes it," His fathers ruffled Sherlocks hairs as he moved past him and out into the hall. His mother followed.

"After that you can help Mary with the rest of your things," she told him with a smile.

Sherlock turned to watch them leave, standing alone in the office. He took one last look into the empty room that he knew would soon be filled with bookshelves and his fathers large desk.

The boy left the room for the hallway, then headed back outside to the car.

* * *

Being the only one outside at the current time, Sherlock got a chance to get a proper look of the outside of the house. He first pulled his bag out of the car, lugging it to the front tires. After setting it down, he walked slowly a few steps forward to see past the side of the house.

The forest really did stretch on forever, and the garden out back of the house, the only other feature of the yard. The boy longed to go explore it, but knew first he had to bring his bag inside.

Sherlock went back to stand by his bag, watching a few of the hired movers carry the larger furniture from the truck into the house, where no doubt his parents were directing the movers on where to place each item.

Sherlock picked his bag up again, half dragging it on the ground before getting It up the step and inside. The house no longer felt empty as it had, the hired workers getting right to work. There were movers going in and out of the office and dining room, adding life to the new house.

Sherlock watched them for a moment before continuing on to moving his bag upstairs to the second bedroom on the left, the room he had already claimed

He got the bag upstairs and dragged it down the hall to the room at the end on the left. Sherlock pushed the door open again, smiling at the sight of this room that he knew was perfect. He set the bag down in the middle of the floor to tell others it was his. He left it there and headed to the window across from the door.

If Sherlock stood on his tiptoes, he could easily see out of the window and see the trees. And off to the side was a tree just like that in the old house. Sherlock unlatched the glass and pushed it open, the cold air nipping at his exposed skin. He stood there quietly for a moment, leaning out of the window as far as he could, his head sticking out and hair being blown about by the light breeze. Very easily, if Sherlock wanted to, he could climb out of the window and reach the tree, where he could then climb down to the ground. He wasnt sure when, or if he would ever need to use this feature, but it was nice to know about. Definatly a necessity when it came to adventures.

Sherlock grinned and pulled the window shut once more, making sure it was latched tightly. He turned to see his brother arrive in the doorway.

"Nice choice," Mycroft commented, having watched Sherlock look into the window. "Just make sure you don't make too much noise. I'm next door," he warned, leaving again to go his own room.

"Of course you are," Sherlock returned under his breath, glaring at Mycroft as the older boy left. The eight-year-old turned back to the window again. Maybe he would get a chance to explore the area a little later.

* * *

Movers came and left, bringing Sherlock's bed and bookshelves into his room, and carrying the boxes up as well. Sherlock watched them all, standing in his spot by the window and taking turns observing the land features, and the moving of his things. When everything was upstairs, and placed in somewhat of the right spots he wanted, Sherlock headed back downstairs. Mary was already on her way up to help him unpack the boxes, but he walked past planning on coming back up later.

The eight-year-old was greeted by his mother at the bottom of the stairs.

"Can I go outside?" he asked quietly, standing on the last of the steps, one hand rested atop the banister.

"Not right now. Go up and help Mary with your stuff," she told him.

"Can I go outside later?" he asked in repsonse.

"We'll see," was his mum's simple reply. Sherlock turned around and trudged back up the steps slowly in protest. He dragged his feet up each step and finally got to the top where he followed the hall back to his new bedroom. Mary was already in it separating the boxes into different areas of the room by content: books, clothes, desk, other.

Sherlock entered silently and say down on his bed that was yet to be made. The sheets, blankets and pillows rested at the end of the bed on the bare mattress where Sherlock was now seated.

He sat there watching Mary move the boxes. Finally she spoke up, having sorted them out for him, and going over to open up the ones containing his clothes.

"Sherlock, do you want to put your books away?" She asked, pulling out a pile of clothes and going over to the dresser he would now be using in replacement for the absence of a closet.

Sherlock slid off the bed slowly, going over to the boxes of books, set nicely in front of his empty. Bookshelves. He opened them, and kneeled down next to them on the floor, pulling them out in stacks of three or four at a time.

The two continued in this way for a long time, silence between them. Mary was busy doing most of the work, and Sherlock did the little that had been directed. After a while, when the boy's curiosity was too much, and when he couldn't handle the quiet any more, Sherlock spoke up.

"What do you think of the new house, Mary?" He addressed the woman, stopping his sorting of the books on the floor, and looking over at her.

"I hardly think my opinion is of importance, Sherlock," She told the boy, continuing with a box of his clothes, folding them and placing them in the their drawers in the new dresser.

"Well it could be. So what do you think?"

"It's a nice house," Mary replied simply.

"Alright, but really. Do you like it?" Sherlock returned, pressing for her opinion.

"Yes, it's quite fine,"

Sherlock scowled and turned back to his box of books, taking them out and stacking them on the floor.

"I think it's stupid." He mumbled.

"And why would you say that? Is a very nice house. I'm sure your mother would not like to hear you describe it as such."

"It's dumb, and small, and I don't like it," Sherlock frowned, pulling another book out and stacking ontop of the pile that was growing tall, and more unsteady with each addition.

"Just because it's different doesn't mean you don't have to like it, Sherlock," Mary tried reasoning. "I'm sure you'll come to like it in a few days time,"

"Unlikely," Sherlock muttered. He returned to his books, beginning to place them on the shelves.

* * *

When all the boxes were empty, and Sherlocks new room was more or less set up, Mary left to go back downstairs. Sherlock remained in his room for a minute. The boy went over to the window once more, placing an elbow on the windowsill, and resting his chin in his palm. He gave a sigh, looking out over the back garden and once more the endless trees. At some point he would have to come to terms that yes, this was where he lived now, whether or not he liked it.


	4. Adventures No One Knows

**A/N: Hey guys, yep, chapter four. Yay! Just want to let you know, that since it is now November, yes, that means NANOWRIMO! However this year I will be working on this more instead of a whole new story. But regardless, I will not post anything until December. I know, I'm sorry. But hopefully by then I'll be really close to done :) **

* * *

Sherlock left to go back downstairs again. The house was for the most part put together. The extra bedroom was across the hall from Sherlock's own, and that held a spare bed, a chair, and bookshelves. The other two rooms on the floor, his parents and Mycrofts, were complete with their belongings. Downstairs, his fathers new office had been complete with a desk, bookshelves, a filing cabinet. A few boxes containing a books sat on the floor. And the dining room had the table and chairs, the boxes containing the dishes and glasses were still in process of being unpacked, half empty, and some dishes stacked on the wood. The new parlor had the three chairs from the old house, a single bookshelf, and books to be unpacked, stacked on the floor in the corner. These few things were placed neatly in front of and complimenting the small fireplace on one wall of the room.

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen where Mary was putting things away. The eight-year-old went and stood in the doorway. After a few minutes, Mart noticed his presence.

"How's it going then, Sherlock?" she asked, unwrapping a glass dish and setting it in a cupboard.

"Its still boring," he sighed. "Do you know where my mum is?" he asked, changing the subject.

"I believe she's in the parlor, along with your father." Mary replied. She picked up a stack of plates and put them away.

Sherlock nodded and turned to leave the kitchen. He headed slowly to the parlor, seeing his mother and father in it. His father was in one of the chairs, already comfortable in the new house. Sherlocks mother was placing a few of the books on one of the shelves.

Sherlock walked in slowly, going over to his fathers chair.

"Can I go outside?" he asked quietly, leaning on one of the armrests.

"Going to check out the new yard then?" Sherlock gave a small nod. His father looked up, then over to Sherlocks mother. She made eye contact with her husband.

"I suppose so. But stay in the back, alright?" he told the boy. "Don't go exploring in the woods on your own,"

Sherlock sighed to himself before agreeing with another nod.

"Okay. Can I go to the woods later?" he asked hopeful.

"er, we'll see," his father responded. "now off you go." Mr. Holmes gave a smile and motioned for Sherlock to do so. Sherlock grinned and turned to leave the room.

"Try not to ruin your clothes, please," His mother told him as he left. "and be back for supper," she called out after him. But Sherlock had already left to get his shoes on.

* * *

Sherlock left the house, closing the door behind him. No one was outside. Their blue car was in the driveway. The movers, and their truck, had already left.

The eight year old looked up at the sky where the sun was already past it's peak. Supper meant close to dark, so he figured he had a couple hours before he had to be back in.

Sherlock walked slowly around the side of the house, his feet crunching on the gravel path. He trailed his fingers along the siding of the house out of boredom. He remembered what his father had said.

_'Don't go exploring in the woods on your own.'_

Well that was stupid. Why not? Surely there was nothing wrong with it. Besides it wasn't dark out yet and Sherlock doubted there were any animals that might attack him. And even if there were, they would be scared off just by his walking about.

Sherlock came to the back of the house to the small garden area. He walked to the end of it, turning and looking back up at the house.

The only places you could see outside were from the two windows in his and Mycrofts bedrooms. Of course no one was in the younger boy's room. And Sherlock doubted his brother would be looking out his own. Even if the older boy did decide to, surely he wouldn't be able to see very much of the back of the house.

The eight year old turned back to face the forest that was a good distance away, separated by the field of grass.

If he went and explored for a bit, no one would notice. The mud would even be cleared from his shoes as he crossed back through the grass.

And Sherlock really wanted to see what else was out there. The house he had seen as they came up couldn't be too far away. The boy could easily make it there and back in over an hour if he ran.

Sherlock grinned to himself. He took another last glance towards the house, satisfied with his plan.

_No one would know._

The eight year old nodded to himself before heading off through the grass field and towards the trees at the end.

* * *

Sherlock didnt look back until he was right at the edge of the trees. From there he took one glance at the house, satisfied to see the curtains from his brother's room were closed. He turned away one final time before entering the woods.

Looking up, Sherlock could just barely see through the canopy of tree branches. The eight-year-old figured that if he made sure the sun was to his right, then he would be heading in roughly the same direction. To get back, all he would need to do was keep it to his left.

Sherlock continued on his way, walking at an average pace, only so he could enjoys the time alone. He decided he would walk as far as he could for about an hour. Then he'd turn back and spend the second hour or so returning home. Two hours wasnt long, and wouldn't give his parents a reason to worry, or come looking for him.

The-eight-year old climbed over a fallen down tree log, sliding down the other side, twigs snapping underneath his feet. He was the only one out here. No one around for a good mile atleast. Sherlock grinned to at the idea of having the entire woods to himself. As he continued walking, occasionally pushing aside branches or jumping off logs he had climbed over, Sherlock started forming a new adventure in his head.

The boy paused, looking around him carefully, until he caught sight of it. The perfect stick for a sword. Long and flawlessly straight. Not too many knots, strong and sturdy. It would give a nice thwacking sound when hit against a tree. Sherlock picked it up, weighing it in his hands, then giving a few test swings over his head and in front of him. Excellent. Now he was armed.

_Captain Sherlock walked to the edge of the cliff, looking over the drop directly below. The cliff face led straight down into the continuous vastness of trees, stretching on as far as the eye could see. The pirate turned back, looking towards the towering trees he had just come through. He wondered how far he had come. How far since the sandy beach where he had left his magnificent beauty of a ship, and half his crew? The rest of his men were here with him, following behind, wary of any natives or animals that might attack at any point in time. The captain nodded to his crew to follow. They would continue on, watching for the setting of the sun to make sure they set up camp before dark._

Sherlock kept walking, dragging the stick along through the dirt, or using it to clear through bushes, or push aside branches. But as he entered a small clearing Sherlock gave a grin.

_The troop had continued in their way, silent save for the twigs snapping beneath them and the shuffling of their feet. But it was sudden, when without warning one crew member tripped on something hidden beneath the leaves, quickly being pulled into the air by his ankle and hanging high above their heads. Then another man was pulled into the trees. And another. Nobody hesitated in acting, drawing their weapons and readying their defensive stances. Captain Sherlock held his sword ready in front of him looking around warily, turning slowly in a circle. What was that? There? An out of figure shadow not lining up with the log beside it. Sherlock's eyes widened as he gave a warning signal to his crew. But they were too late. Out of nowhere a band of natives, dressed in cloth and leaf clothing, faces and bodies covered in masks of red and white clay paint. They jumped out silently, pulling out bows and arrows, poison dart tubes, and mini throwing knives and daggers. The men of the Black Elm attacked, not waiting to run after the natives who had snuck up on them._

Sherlock spun in a circle, bringing the stick down on a rock. The weapons cracked against the stone, echoing through the expanse of trees. The eight-year-old swung at a tree trunk, then another invisible target off to the side. He ran over and jumped onto a log, assessing the imaginary scene in front of him.

Captain Sherlock jumped onto a rock where he knew his men would be able to see him. He watched as the men were slashing their swords, ducking from opposing weapons. Bodies falling to the ground , both those of his own men and some of their attackers. The captain raised his sword, whistling loudly for his crew.

_"Aye, save yerselves and run!" he shouted, not waiting to do so himself as he jumped down from the rock, running off in their earlier direction of travel. The Black Elm crew didnt hesitate in following, running after him as they were chased from behind, the remaining natives in still trying to hit the pirates with their long-range weapons. Arrows and knives stuck into the trees or the dirt right as Captain Sherlock and his crew passed. He didnt have to look behind him, but knew from a sudden outcry here and there that some of the sharp objects had hit their targets. But none of the pirates stopped, even if they knew each step could be their last._

The eight-year ran through the woods, trees whipping past him as his small legs carried him deeper into the trees. He jumped, ducked and brushed past bushes, stick still in hand as he imagined him and his pirate crew being pursued by the imaginary native tribe. Sherlock turned to looked behind him as he ran, only for a brief second. But as he turned back, the sunlight opened up, nearly blinding him as the tree line stopped, and suddenly instead of uneven ground covered in twigs and leaves, Sherlock was running on grass. He stopped suddenly, his heart pounding in his chest and now more noticeable from the abrupt halt. He had come to the edge of the forest in this direction. And now, not more than a hundred meters away, and across a gravel road, was the house Sherlock had seen earlier in the journey to his new home.

The boy backed away a bit, ducking into the cover of trees just in case any person might happen to be nearby. He slid down into a crouch behind a log, watching the small field he had just run into, the house across from him, and the road seperating the two.

* * *

Just as Sherlock ducked behind the bushes, he saw a figure come running down the road. After a moment, he realized it was a little boy, probably no older than Sherlock himself. The other boy had on dark shorts ending right above his knees, and a cream jumper, looking as if his mum had knit it for him. Sherlock watched as this boy came down the graveled road, chasing after a small football that rolled out in front of him. The other boy caught up to it, dribbled it in front of him for a bit, then kicked it towards the grass lawn in front of the house, following it again.

Sherlock didnt move, and hardly breathed perhaps afraid the other boy could hear him even at this distance. But the eight-year-old didnt move, more out of fascination, and a bit of joy. He assumed this other boy lived here, in the house across from the forest. Sherlocks parents had been wrong about the house being vacant. And that meantt Sherlock would have someone to play with. He turned his attention back to what the boy with the jumper was doing.

The boy continued to play with his ball, kicking it around in the yard. Then after a while he had picked up a stick, holding it like a rifle and stalking around the house, or ducking behind trees and bushes as if in an imaginary war. He had just laid down in the grass on his stomach, the pretend gun on the ground in front of him, and aimed at something unseen off in the distance.

That's when a stout woman appeared in the doorway to the house, calling out. From his position in the bushes, Sherlock couldn't make out fully what she had said. A name possibly, but he couldn't hear what it was. Then also something about coming inside ... for supper, perhaps?

Apparently it had been directed at the boy in the jumper, because at the sound of the woman's voice he leapt out of the grass, brushing off his front. He left the stick on the ground before rushing to retrieve his ball, and running inside. The door closed behind him, and then Sherlock was left alone again. At least, he assumed so.

The eight-year-old waited in the bushes for a while longer, thinking over and processing what he had witnessed. Then a thought came to him and he looked up at the sky. The other boy had been called in, meaning it was nearing late. And by looking through the treetops, Sherlock could just barely see the remains io the sun, concluding that it would be getting dark soon. He needed to get back home before anyone started wondering where he was, and possibly would go looking for him in the backyard, where he wouldn't be found.

Sherlock got up quickly from his perch behind the log, turning from his view of the house across the road. He would come back tomorrow if possible, maybe introduce himself to this other boy. Sherlock grinned at the thought, eager to do so.

Without further hesitation, he ran off back into the woods, doing his best to go quickly and not waste tine, whilst also dodging through branches and around the trees and logs without tripping or getting hurt.


End file.
